


Liebe ist ein Spiel (Love is a Game)

by hipbonesofChrist



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Arguments, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Nazi, Post-WWII, Revenge, Romance, WWII
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:02:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipbonesofChrist/pseuds/hipbonesofChrist
Summary: “I’m not a killer. I couldn’t care less about you, but if you die, it’s on my conscience.”Heroes don't always get happy endings. But villains certainly try for them.





	1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry that summary was a little vague, but let's just say I didn't want to spoil anything! I truly love this story and I hope y'all will too!

Hans drew his cap lower over his brow, his hair all brushed forwards to hide his scar. He’d just spent a harrowingly long time aboard a ship to America, and he was in no mood to be in any place as cramped as that ever again.

The ship had docked in Manhattan, and as he walked down the gangplank he grimaced, once again being met with crowds and crowds of people. Dog-tired and half seasick, Hans brought all the English he knew to mind and prepared to ask around for an apartment.

Jerking as a man passed him, bumping his shoulder, the man bit back a foul curse, checking himself even as his fists clenched. He was surrounded by so many people, so many different religions and colors, that it half made him sick. Still, he had no jacket, and the close proximity was welcome to shut out the chill in the air.

Eventually, Hans found a room for rent, the sign written in English, German, and Polish. By then, it was nightfall, and Hans ducked inside the doorway, asking for the landlord. The man was short and fat, and smelled of fried food, but Hans did his best to keep the distaste out of his expression.

His room was cold, but it had a sink, stove, icebox, and bed. He’d lived in worse conditions before. It wasn’t Nantucket Island, but it wasn't a completely empty apartment, at least. And anyways, with the meager supply of money Landa now had, it was the best he could afford — and still, it would only last him till the end of the week. Hans settled miserably down on the bed, feeling ill at ease in this stinking, cramped and crowded city of a thousand wrong nationalities. There were no blankets, so he curled his knees up to his chest, his cap staying on to warm his head. Tomorrow, he thought with a stab of distaste, he would have no choice but to find a job.


	2. The First

Adjusting his cap, Hans stepped from his apartment building and started to make his way along the dusty sidestreet, peering into grimy store windows for ‘help wanted’ signs. He kept to the sidewalks, cars and throngs of people mostly obscuring the road, and even then he was jostled by the people.

“Does this crowd ever stop?” He muttered to himself, mouth twisted in a scowl as both of his feet were stepped on at the same time, causing him to stumble. Overhearing him, an urchin sitting against the wall chuckled.

“You’re not from around here.” It wasn't a question.

“ _Scheiße_.” Ignoring the man, Hans kept on his way, thinking back after and only then realizing it would have been wholly satisfying to kick the man in the teeth.

The first establishment in search of workers Hans came across was a cabaret. Grimacing, Hans walked past the door quickly. The second was a newspaper company — useless. His English wasn't anywhere near passable. He didn't find a third shop until it was almost dark, most stores starting to close up.

“Wait!” Just before the last patron left the store, Hans pushed open the door. It was a quaint bakery, small and dim, but someone had clearly taken pains to make it look less so. There were tablecloths on all the tables, and flowers in the pristine window. The smell was enticing; Hans realized he hadn’t eaten anything since the ship.

“Can I help you?”

The woman standing at the counter looked at Hans with grey-brown eyes. Her darker, ash blonde hair was pleated in a braid down her back, and her features had a look of sharpness about them. Her delicate, angular eyebrows gave her an intense expression.

“I...I need a job.” Hans said, thinking quickly. There was no time for mind games here — this was the only viable place for work, and he needed the money. He knew nothing of baking, and so probably wouldn't get the job anyways, but it didn't hurt to try. In a week he’d be as homeless as the cackling urchin he’d met lounging on the sidewalk.

“Come to the back.” The woman had an American accent, but there was something in her voice, another nationality, that Hans couldn't quite make out. She motioned the man to the counter, and then behind it, to the kitchen area. There were two meager ovens, only one lit, and flour everywhere. Was she the only one working here?

“What’s your name?” She asked. Taken aback by her forwardness, Hans took a moment to answer in English.

“Hans Landa.” He bit back saying Colonel, figuring that here in America, it wouldn't help him any. The girl’s dark eyes were intelligent and took in Hans’ appearance quickly.

“German?” She asked. He nodded, and he waited for her to ask him what side he’d been on, but she didn’t.

“Do you know anything about working in a bakery?”

Hans hesitated, then shook his head. He half-turned, prepared to leave. The girl’s voice was amused.

“Going somewhere?”

He looked at her. “Surely you would not want an incompetent worker.” he said, although to his displeasure it came out less confident than he would have liked. She didn't seem fazed, however.

“Are you strong?” She looked to his arms. “You look like you're pretty strong.”

“I...I suppose I am.” Hans replied, having never really dwelled upon the idea before.

“Think you can handle carrying bags of flour?”

Hans stared. “That’s...that’s all I would have to do?”

“It isn't really rocket science.” The girl said with a soft smile. “Were you expecting something harder?”

“Miss...um, perhaps I should explain. In Germany, I was head of…” Hans paused for a moment, thinking that it would be unwise to tell her of his affiliations. “Head of a very respected organization. I was trusted to do much more than...carry flour.”

Still, the girl’s voice and eyes glittered with amusement. “Well, we don't exactly have anything more intellectual to do.” She said. “I guess you could try somewhere else…” she ventured.

“W-wait.” Hans swallowed his pride, almost choking with the feeling of inferiority that came with doing so. “If that's all the help you need around here, I...I suppose I could do it.”

“I knew you'd say that.” The girl said. She started walking to the front of the store again, and Hans followed, hazel eyes watching her silently as she closed the door and locked it, turned the ‘open’ sign over, and collected money from the register. She watched him carefully as she did this.

“You’re not a thief, are you?” She asked. Hans shook his head, the indignance clear in his eyes.

“No.” Hans said clearly. He looked around, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Where is your employer?”

Although she looked amused before, the woman outright laughed now. “Right here.” She said. “This is my shop.” Seeing the shock on Hans’ face, her smile faded. “Is that a problem?”

“Ah...no.” Hans said at last, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring look. The girl looked grave.

“Let me guess. The women where you come from are supposed to cook and have babies. The men aren't supposed to work for them.”

Hans nodded, slowly. He had a sickening feeling that the woman was suddenly looking right through him. Her grey eyes, at first tender, were now stormy.

“And what do the men do, then?” Her voice was beginning to rise, and Hans stepped back, towards the door.

“Do they become soldiers? Do they _kill Jews_?” The woman started to shout, and she reached out, quick as a whip, and snatched Hans’ cap from his head. Even with his bangs, the swastika was still visible. He looked at her with wide hazel eyes, taken aback at her forwardness. His mind was racing — should he hit her?

Stepping backwards again, Hans unlocked the door, flinching as the woman came for him again, shoving him.

“You _fucking Nazi_!” She yelled, hitting him again as she threw him from the store. He stumbled on the concrete and fell to his knees, too weak to make himself stand. She threw his cap after him, yelling _Nazi_ once again. Now, everyone was looking at him, and he realized some were approaching as well, fists balled. He started walking in the direction of his apartment, sensing the danger.

“I am not.” He hissed at the woman, looking back at her. He made a solemn vow to get vengeance the next time he saw her.

Closer to his apartment now, Hans became all-too-aware of the four men following him. He sighed and stopped, knowing he’d have to face them sometime.

“I am not a Nazi!” He yelled as they approached him. One of them reached out and threw the man to the ground. They stood above him and looked down at his scarred forehead with an expression of calm anger.

“You sure, friend?” One man asked. To Hans’ annoyance, he carried a harsh Polish accent. The German knew it was useless to try and explain to these men that he could care less about Herr Hitler’s ideologies. He struggled to stand.

“I think he knows exactly what he is.” Another, American man hissed. A ringing erupted in Hans’ head like he’d been standing next to a bomb. Then a boot stamped on Hans’ stomach, and punches and kicks rained down on his head, groin, arms, legs, and ribs. Every part of him was pulsing with pain and, in places where bootheels had broken his skin, blood. No one called the police, or none had deigned to show up at the scene — the men only walked away when they were dripping sweat and dog-tired. Hans lay in the street, fading into unconsciousness. His face had been protected by his arms, but the back of his head was throbbing and he was bleeding and bruised. His stomach felt heavy, the muscles rigid. The ground seemed to move underneath him, and he groaned, blood dripping from his swollen lips, nauseated. He fainted.


	3. The Second

When Hans came to, his meager bag of clothing was resting at his knee. It was dark out, only the lamplight illuminating the street. His landlord had thrown him out — he had no money, no food…

Becoming lucid for a brief moment, Hans realized he had worse problems than that. He felt weak and shaky, feverish, and he still couldn’t stand. He was sweating bullets, or maybe that was vomit — his stomach felt light and fluttery, upset. Upon trying to move, he coughed, wrenching his ribs, and realized that he quite literally couldn’t. He was stranded here in the dark, hated by everyone in this God-forsaken country. For the first time, Hans felt something for what he had done, not remorse but a sense of irritation at it. Perhaps if he had not sought such power, he wouldn't be here, sick and defeated on an unknown American street.

The lucid feeling faded, and he lost consciousness once again, only waking up once more during the night. His bag was gone, he thought deliriously before he passed out again.

Having no concept of time, and unable to move, Hans was dangerously feverish and sickly by the time the woman found him. Although her eyes were dark with that storm-cloud look, she wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him up, starting to walk him towards her bakery. He was still unresponsive.

Laying him gently on her bed and taking his jacket and soiled shirt off, the woman’s eyes traced over his lean physique, his purple and blue bruises. There were clear, stark boot prints on his side and one black bruise in the center of his stomach, like the toe of a shoe.

“Christ.” The the woman shook her head. She couldn't believe she was doing this. Leaving the room for a moment, she got a bowl of lukewarm water, bandages, and a cloth, balancing all of the items in her arms with a practiced precision.

Just as the the woman finished cleaning Hans’ wounds, the man convulsed, gagging dryly. It startled her, and she tensed until she was sure he posed no danger to her, and wasn't waking up. He gave a small groan, brow furrowed.

When Hans did finally come to, he felt absolutely nauseous and his vision was swimming. The woman stood over him, and he struggled to move, lest she try to beat him up as well. Instead, she put her hand on his shoulder.

“Stay still. You’re still sick.” She said. Hans obeyed at once, too exhausted to disobey.”

“Your fever hasn’t broken yet.” She continued. Hans realized he was trembling. “You’re lucky you didn't get an infection, with all the cuts and bruises on you. And you're lucky they didn't kill you.”

“Where a...Where am I?” he asked, panting between every word.

“You’re above the bakery.” The woman said. “I brought you here.” She didn't say anything more then, but Hans’ disarmingly innocent expression angered her. She leaned close to him.

“Listen to me, Nazi. I’m not a killer. I couldn’t care less about you, but if I’d left you there to die, it would’ve been on my conscience.”

Her ferocity once again astounded Hans, although he was in so much pain he could scarcely dwell on any other sensation. He licked his chapped lips, closing his eyes.

“I still might die.” He murmured. The woman hesitated, and he opened his eyes and looked at her, annoyed at her discretion. He was pleased and surprised when she answered without preamble.

“Yes, you still might. You have a concussion, not to mention cuts and bruises all over your body, and a bad fever. You got any Kraut next of kin I should notify?”

Had the situation been different, Hans would have lashed out at the remark, either with violence or with his own quick wit. Now, however, he only shook his head.

“No one.” he rasped. He wasn’t expecting sympathy from the woman, and he got none. He coughed miserably, positive that he had never been so helpless in his life. After a minute of silence from the woman Hans turned onto his side, hugging his stomach. He felt nauseous.

“Are you hungry?” The woman asked, sighing. She sounded exasperated, and for good reason, Hans thought. He swallowed hard and shook his head.

“Fine.” The woman got up to leave, but Hans cleared his throat, reaching out to her. Though she recoiled from his touch, she turned back.

“What is your name?”

“N...Natalie.” The woman said. “Natalie Kamiński.”

“Kamiński?” Now Hans could discern that faint accent — Polish.

“Yes.” Natalie said. She could see the recognition in Hans’ eyes, overshadowed by his suddenly curious expression.

“Were you in Poland during —”

“I moved here before the war.” Her mouth twisted in a scowl. “My father was still there when it started.”

“Was he Jewish?” Hans asked. His head rocked back as Natalie slapped him with enough force to make him bite his tongue. Cheek burning, he glared at her, eyes blazing.

“When I am up from this bed, I am going to pay you back.” He said, voice deadly soft. Natalie’s gaze didn't waver for a moment.

“He wasn’t Jewish. And your men still killed him.”

Leaning down over him, a strand of hair coming loose from her braid, she shot him a withering glare. “I could kill you right now. But that would make me no better than you and the rest of Hitler’s dogs.”

Hans’ eyes flashed with hatred. “I am no dog.”

“No?” The woman stepped back, face mild. “Then why did you follow his every order? You’re nothing better than a servant. A piece of machinery.”

“I am _not_!” Hans shouted, chest heaving. “How dare you?” He spat.

“How dare I?” The woman retorted quickly. “How dare _you_ think you’re more superior than every person different than yourself?”

She looked at him, waiting for an answer. He had none.

“I’m not a machine.” He reinstated, softer. Behind his eyes, though, there was well-hidden emotion. Who was this girl to tell him? And, more importantly...

Who was she to make him doubt himself?


End file.
